


We're Gonna Get Through This

by Winchester_with_Wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Keep Fighting, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Basically you have a meltdown and Sam and Dean are there to comfort you, DO NOT COPY, DO NOT REPLICATE, Depression, Do Not Translate, Do not repost, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It gets a lil nicer at the end, Panic Attack, Reader Insert, Self-Hatred, Triggers, but maybe almost fluffy?, negativity, no SMUT whatsoever, not really fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester_with_Wings/pseuds/Winchester_with_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were having yet again another bad day. You'd been having a lot of those lately; you just used to be better at hiding it.</p><p>But how could you begin to explain to him that today wasn't an isolated incident. That fucking up dinner was only the last drop in a pool of negativity which was now overflowing. You were terrified to tell Sam or Dean about the things going on in your head. As hunters you were heroes, saving people from things they didn't know how to defend themselves against. You didn't want them to perceive you as a victim too. They might decide that you're not good enough to be a hunter anymore and without that then what purpose would you really serve; actually have in this world? The bunker was the only place in the world that felt like it could be home. You couldn't lose that before you’d even accepted it as home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Get Through This

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this story has some seriously sad and painful feelings on the readers part. Lots of negative thoughts and self-hate. There's one small reference to self-harm and some actual scratching but that's it but I figured I should still tag accordingly so TRIGGER WARNING for the self-harm but also for the anxiety, depression and self-hate.
> 
> I wrote this for my sister who has been struggling. She is my very best friend and I love her so much that if anything were to ever happen to her, I would be utterly and horrifically devastated. To watch her struggle makes me feel helpless but if there's anything I can do, I will do it. And so she requested that I write her something where Dean nurtures and takes care of the reader. I couldn't not include Sam since Jared is so active in the fight against mental illness.
> 
> I drew on my own experience and feelings as well as my sister's, so maybe be a little sensitive to that but I'm still open to constructive criticism.
> 
> Title comes from a song called "Head Above Water" by our favorite band, Theory of a Deadman. Great song. Great lyrics. Some of them are in here.

You were having yet again another bad day. You'd been having a lot of those lately; you just used to be better at hiding it. The last two hunts had been pretty rough but you'd suffered in silence. Some of that suffering had been physical--the result of a couple of bad hits and being tossed across the room by a werewolf--but mostly it was emotional.

    
You tried to distract yourself earlier today by going to the grocery store. You wanted to feel valuable, useful. So you bought all of the foods you knew Dean and Sam liked. You weren't picky so anything they ate you'd enjoy too. You made it a point to get steaks, fish and chicken to make some meals nicer than the fast food you all usually ate.  

 

The boys were doing their own thing somewhere in the bunker when you started to cook the steaks. The rice you decided to make with it was in the pan with some butter, you were waiting for it to brown.

 

It usually takes a while with some stirring so when you go to the sink to get the water you need before the seasoning, you're shocked by the sudden sizzling and burning smell. It was as if the rice had just been waiting for you to turn your back!

You run over to rescue the rice but it's too late by the time you grab the spatula. The rice continues to burn even when you take the pan off the stove. You hop from one foot to the other, panic rising in your chest. How do you dispose of it when it's so hot?!

You don't want to damage the rubber thing in the sink but you can't put it in the garbage either because it would burning through the bag. The burnt smell has spread throughout the kitchen and you try to open a window, turn on a fan, do something before the smoke alarm goes off.

You finally dump the burned rice into a glass bowl. The smoke alarm doesn't go off and that's concerning because it should've. You'll have to have Sam look at it since the kitchen ceiling is too high for you even if you stand on a chair.

  
"Damn it," you whimper to yourself, lightly stomping your foot. Your heart is racing from the panic and you're scared, angry and just plain upset that just burning rice could get you so worked up. You run your fingers through your hair, tugging it a little harder than you probably should. You stare at the clock and wonder if you have time to start another box of rice. What else would you all have as a side dish if you didn’t? You wanted so badly to make a good meal. With a frustrated sigh, you decide to make more rice even though you know it’s going to take longer to make now.

The rice seems to be coming along fine after a couple of minutes. It even looks like being on high heat is cooking it faster. But still, you can’t catch a break. You decided to pan sear the steaks you bought even though Dean was the better griller, whereas your skills were more stovetop-oriented.

The steaks are thin so you know that they won’t take long to cook either and you’ll want to act fast so that they don’t come out tough and overdone. However, before you can even consider the inside of the meat, you realize as they sizzle in the pan that the pan isn’t exactly searing them.

Rather than browning, the steaks are turning gray! You try to flip the steaks and press them down into the heat of the pan but it hardly works. It makes the edges brown but it also makes them curl. What the fuck?! You’ve made steak on the stove dozens of times and this has never happened to you! Your grinding your teeth and choking back angry grumbles and growls. You have to give them at least another minute to ensure that they at least cook on the inside. But moving back and forth between the pressing down on the steaks and stirring the rice--making sure that this batch doesn’t burn--works against you.

You know right as you move the steaks out of the pan and onto a plate that you’re screwed. You cut into the thin pieces of meat and sure enough, they’re too well-done. Not even Dean would eat this. The rice is cooked and looking great but who cares? The steak is ruined. Dinner is ruined.

As you stare at the kitchen counter, your hands grip the edge until your knuckles are white. Your breathing is getting ragged and heavy. There’s a flicker of pain behind your eyes that’s starting out as light as a heartbeat now but will soon be throbbing and making your whole head feel swollen. Heat is rising in your cheeks and you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the hot and burning sting of tears fill your eyes.

 

“Son of a bitch!” you shout as you push yourself away from the counter. All of your mistakes in preparing this meal sits before you on the counter and you just want to reach out and sweep it all away. Cast it all off the counter in a downpour of glass, metal, and food that deserve to be shattered, dented and thrown away because the dinner is already ruined. It’s all damaged goods; just like you.

It had all the potential to be a good meal. But then you’d had the gall to try and be the one to make it. How stupid. How pathetic. How could you think anything you did or anything you touched would come out right?

Your hands fly up and into your hair. Your fingers curl and your nails dig into your scalp. The sting of you pulling on your hair makes your eyes water and it’s only once you’ve got that physical pain do you allow yourself to cry.

You spin around and look at the small table sitting up against the wall in this kitchen and once again you’re tempted to wreck something. You want to grab a chair and throw it into the wall. You want to flip the table and break the legs off of it. You want to be destructive but your restrain yourself. If anyone is destructive when they’re upset, it’s Dean and to imitate him would only look like a cry for attention.

 

And you don’t want attention. Not this kind of attention anyway. Whatever is wrong with you, you always tell yourself it’s not that bad. Other people have it worse. What’s wrong with you isn’t deserving of attention. Nothing you do deserves attention. Maybe that’s why you enjoy hunting some days: you do someone a service by saving their life from a monster; they don’t even know the monster exists...therefore your act of bravery is nothing worth noticing. Perhaps you’re a moderately good (because let’s face it, the Winchesters are the best) hunter because you go unnoticed.

You’re not worth noticing...so when the monsters or spirits go after Sam or Dean, you’re able to lend a hand. Sam and Dean seem grateful but really, you figure you’re more of a burden than an asset. You’ve convinced yourself that you’ve always been a burden.

All of this...all of those thoughts running rapidly through your head...overwhelming you...happen in the span of a maybe 45 slow seconds.

You hear Sam call your name from somewhere else in the bunker. His large body nearly fills the doorway to the kitchen but the second it does, you’re already pushing past him and stomping away. You let your anger, rather than your sadness, fuel your retreat so that Sam thinks you’re mad and is less likely to chase after you.

You’re not some fragile sad whimpering little girl who runs away and tosses herself onto her bed in a devastating show of dramatics. Well...at least not on the outside. You’ve always been determined to look tough, even though you’re fractured on the inside. Even before you joined up with the Winchester Brothers (because that’s their team name to all the other hunters out there), you put on a show as a tough woman. You had to be tough to be a hunter because if you’re not a tough hunter, you’re the damsel in distress and that’s not who you want to be.

You didn’t want to be the person you are. You didn’t want to be broken. But you couldn’t help if one chip on the windshield that was your feelings suddenly spidered and cracked the whole damn window in half. But you hate that apparently burnt rice and overdone steaks were those meager pebbles which served as the catalyst to that irreparable damage. On an actual car, you can replace the windshield but on you?

You were broken and there was no way to fix it; no way to heal. Scratches, gashes, and broken bones? Those healed. Your mental health? With time, it had only gotten worse.

Despite what you told yourself about being tough, you definitely threw yourself onto your bed in a flurry of whining and tears. But you did slam the door and that was tough, right? Your sobs racked your body. You convulsed and dry heaved. Yet all the while you remained quiet in your suffering, muffling your whimpers by biting your hand and then finally a pillow.

It was because of that painful silence that you were able to hear Sam knock at your door. You called yourself selfish for hoping Sam would come check on you, selfish for wanting the attention. You didn’t deserve it.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” he said. You can hear the concern in his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Just go away,” you murmured. He probably couldn’t hear you. You were tricking yourself into accepting his attention. You were at war with yourself on whether that was a good or bad thing.

“Y/N, I’m not going anywhere.” Oh, so he did hear you?

“Just leave me alone,” you deflected his efforts once more out of stubbornness.

“No,” he harshly replied. The corner of your mouth turned up in an almost smile. The Winchesters were stubborn too. You admired that. “I’m coming in.” The door knob started to turn. You laid on your stomach and buried your face in your pillow, holding your breath, trying to remain as motionless as possible. But that was hard when your sobbing and anxiety had you hyperventilating and hiccuping.

The bed dipped as Sam sat to your left. The scent of his old spice body wash reached your nose even through the pillow. Sam and Dean always smelled good. You probably never smelled good. You rarely cared to try, especially lately.

You flinched when Sam’s giant hand touched your shoulder blade. He pulled back for maybe a second before committing to rubbing your back in small circles. He continued to rub your back and eventually he gathered all of your hair and smoothed it out between your shoulder blades, his fingers leaving a soothing trail of touches on your scalp and neck.

Your racing heartbeat was beginning to slow. You were no longer breathed ragged hiccuping breaths. But your breathing was still deep and heavy. You were squeezing your eyes shut so tight that it hurt your already aching head and it wasn’t even keeping the tears back.

“Y/N, what’s going on? Are you okay?” he said in a hushed tone a few moments later. Obviously, you weren’t okay but he was giving you the chance to talk about it if you wanted. “I saw the kitchen. I don’t understand what happened. You burned some rice and then what?” You adjusted your face so you could look at him out of one eye.

“I fucked it up,” you squeaked. Sam’s brow was furrowed with concern and he was frowning too. The look of concern in his eyes was too much for you. You’d seen him give that look to Dean on several occasions. Sam and Dean were not without their own hard times. You felt sick to your stomach for commandeering Sam’s sympathy when his and Dean’s problems were so much worse than your own. It made your mouth twist in disgust and you squeezed your pillow as you curled in on yourself. “I always fuck up. I can’t do anything right,” you managed to say through your grinding teeth. You were so angry--full of hatred and loathing towards yourself for having these feelings and letting them show.

Suddenly, Sam had scooped you up into his lap and enveloped you in his strong arms. You’d released the pillow and so you clutched at his open flannel shirt and cried into his chest. He was shushing you and starting to rock a little.

“That’s not true,” he murmured into your hair. “It was just a small mistake. No harm in that.”

A choked cry escaped your throat, “noooo. It’s not just that.” Your hands fisted in his shirt.

“Hey, hey, I know, I know,” Sam whispered, rocking you a little more. He moved onto your bed a little more so that he could lean against your headboard while he cradled you in your lap. “Just let it out. Go ahead and cry. I’m here. I got you. Just take some deep breaths.”

And so you did. You continued to sob. Your body was shaking like a frightened dog and you hated that you’d let yourself be reduced into such a small thing in need of coddling. The negativity in your head was flowing like the blood through your body, not a single part of your mind was left unscathed. And that scared you. It scared you that you were so damaged.

At some point, you might’ve said that out loud; told Sam that you were scared. “I know, but don’t be. I’m here to protect you. We’ll get through this,” he offered. But you frantically shook your head. You were a sinking ship and you didn’t want to drag Sam down with you. He was too important to this world. You told him so, including the part where you compared yourself to the Titanic. Sam tensed a bit and gently but still forcefully grabbed your shoulders so he could pull you out of his chest and look you in the eye. “No. Don’t say that. You’re just as important,” he said through the harsh lines of his lips.

“Sam!” you heard Dean call out from somewhere in the bunker. “Sam! Where’s Y/N? She made dinner. Where are you?” There was no disgust at his mentioning your failed attempt at dinner and you found that odd. Dean had once playfully berated Sam for ruining a bacon cheeseburger by putting lettuce and tomatoes on it. When you could hear Dean walking towards your room, Sam announced your location.

“No. Not Dean. I don’t want him to see me like this,” you whispered like a little girl. You cared for both Winchester brothers and found both of them extremely attractive but it had always been Dean you were slightly more attracted to. And Sam was the more emotional brother sometimes so you’d felt a little more comfortable crying in front of him, but Dean? Would he think you’re weak?

The door to your room was open. Dean froze when he saw you curled up in Sam’s lap. You tried to hide your face but not before you saw the small plate in Dean’s hand. The plate had some of the rice on it and in Dean’s hand...was one of the steaks which already had some bites out of it and was halfway to his mouth. He was eating that?! You’d thought the meal ruined and he was eating it!

“Shit. What happened?” he asked. Walking into the room, he put the steak on the small plate of rice and set it down on the bedside table. He wiped his hands on pants and reached out to you. Again, you flinched.

“Y/N, he’s eating the food. You didn’t fuck it up,” Sam said, the first sentence coming out with a hint of amusement.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I? It’s still good. Just looks this way ‘cause she probably didn’t have the stove temp high enough when she started. Is that the problem?” Dean continued to guess. You weren’t sure if hearing the actual science behind your mistake made it better or worse.

Did it even matter? The food wasn’t the real problem. You were the problem. You always were. You squeezed your eyes shut tight again at that idea. Your whole body tensed and they both noticed.

“Sammy, lemme have her,” Dean requested. You reluctantly released Sam’s shirt as you were passed from Sam’s lap to Dean’s. You were like a fragile doll; the kind that were frequently possessed by hateful spirits, but it was your own spirit that was the curse. “Go make her some soup and tea,” Dean ordered. Sam agreed with his idea and left. When you were alone, Dean ran his fingers through your hair. “It’s going to be okay, Sweetheart,” he whispered next to your ear before kissing the top of your head. “I’m here.”

You didn’t grasp at Dean’s shirt like you did Sam’s. Instead, you held your own hand, completely unaware until a few minutes later that your fingers were moving and your nails were scratching at the back of your hand. You surprised yourself when you realized you’d been doing it and had scratched the skin raw enough to start bleeding in a couple of places. Dean noticed and pulled apart your hands.

“Hey, Hey! Don’t do that!” he said as he hurriedly examined your hands. You felt terrible--as if you’d disappointed him--when he took you off his lap and got off the bed. He went into your bathroom for a moment and returned with nail clippers and a damp washcloth.

You sat crosslegged on your bed with your eyes downcast as Dean began to cut your fingernails. He swiped the clippings off your bed to the floor, mentioning that he’d vacuum your room later, and then proceeded to gingerly pat at the scrapes on your hand. And as if you weren't already a mental wreck, you looked down at your legs, exposed by jean shorts and see hunter’s scars. You grimace and hate yourself for knowing that at least one of them is not from hunting.

“Don’t do this ever again,” Dean said in a serious tone, holding up your hand in front of your face. “You’re already in a dangerous line of work. I don’t want to worry about you getting hurt at home too.” He’d said home. This wasn’t your home though. You didn’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. Fresh tears start to fall but Dean cups your face in his warm calloused hands. “Hey, Baby, no more crying.” He gave you a slight smile. “No use crying over burned rice,” he tried to add in an attempt at levity.

“But...but…” you tried to say. But how could you begin to explain to him that today wasn't an isolated incident. That fucking up dinner was only the last drop in a pool of negativity which was now overflowing. You were terrified to tell Sam or Dean about the things going on in your head. As hunters you were heroes, saving people from things they didn't know how to defend themselves against. You didn't want them to perceive you as a victim too. They might decide that you're not good enough to be a hunter anymore and without that then what purpose would you really serve; actually have in this world? The bunker was the only place in the world that felt like it could be home. You couldn't lose that before you’d even accepted it as home.  
  
“I’m so lost,” you sighed. The tears stopped but the floodgates opened and words poured out. “I’m overwhelmed. I can’t do anything. I don’t even feel like I can make a single decision without second guessing myself. And I'm so lonely,” you paused, surprised at yourself for admitting that. And it wasn’t even a sexual thing, you just have never really had a solid companion or friend. Sam and Dean had each other but you didn’t have anyone. You continue, holding Dean’s stare. “I’ve always been lonely, always been alone. I've always felt this way and always will. This life is lonely. I never should've chosen this life.”

“But you didn’t,” Dean cuts in. “If you had control, you would never have chosen this life.” He looks frustrated and you’re sure you've angered him, scared him off. Flipped the switch that meant he might’ve cared for you. Now that he knows you’re lonely, he’ll pull away. But instead he gets closer. Dean pulls you into arms and the smell of gasoline, engine oil and whiskey fills your nose. Dean and Sam’s scents are polar opposites; Sam smelled like nature. “You're not alone,” Dean says in a firm voice, his chin is resting on your shoulder. “Not anymore. Not ever. I know you’re overwhelmed but you’ve just got to keep your head above the water. Even if it feels hopeless, you’re gonna get through this. We will get through this.”

You hear Sam knock at the door with his foot. You look up and Dean turns and you see he’s got a whole tray of food. You rub at your eyes and feel the sting and puffiness that’s expected with bawling your eyes out. Quickly, you go to the bathroom to wash your face with cold water. You return to the room where sat has set the tray down on your bed and added your laptop to the mix.

Dean doesn’t have to ask for your password which is only slightly terrifying. It fills you with a warmth instead that Dean knows you well enough to know your lucky numbers and favorite animal. Perhaps you do belong here with Dean and Sam.  
  
Sam meets you at your bathroom door and hugs you some more. He squeezes you and whispers the words, “always keep fighting. We’ll always be here to help.” If you hadn’t already spent all of your tears, his words would’ve made you cry with relief and joy.

You try to peek over his shoulder and see that he did in fact bring you your favorite tea and chicken noodle soup. On the tray you also see the steaks and a heaping mound of the rice.

“You guys, you know you don’t have to eat that just to make me feel better. I’m sure it actually doesn’t taste good,” you try to say in a lighter tone. You want to feel better, you honestly do. It’s just hard to move on from your meltdown in only a couple of minutes. Sam releases you from his hug and picks up one of the steaks with his long fingers.

“It actually tastes good,” Sam counters. He takes a bite and then offers the very same steak to you. “Try it,” he manages to say through a full mouth. You hesitate for a second before taking a bite as well. You’re sharing food like it’s no big deal. That’s something that friends and family do, right? And you end up conceding that yeah, the steak isn’t too bad.

“Aw yes! You have Finding Nemo on here? We’re totally watching it,” Dean decides for the group, getting comfy on your bed with your pillows and setting the rice he brought in earlier on his stomach.

“You went into my iTunes?!” You feign shock and insult. Dean gives you a sweet and goofy smirk.

“Of course, gotta make sure you’re not wasting space with bad music. Come on! Taylor Swift?” Dean blows a raspberry and gives a thumbs down. You playfully slap his leg as you crawl onto the middle of the bed. You snuggle up to him because then Sam joins you on the other side of the bed.

“Oh please, you know you love Taylor Swift,” you tease. Dean nudges your elbow and shushes you with a smirk.

The three of you settle together on the bed and, after the food is distributed, Dean hits the spacebar and Finding Nemo starts to play. He puts his arm around you and you pretend to not hear him mumble, “Shake it off, shake it off.”

And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to try your hardest to let go of all of that negativity and “just keep swimming” like Sam suggests when that part of the movie comes up.

And later that night after watching another Disney movie, you fall asleep curled up next to Dean, your head resting on his chest and your arm draped across his waist. Sam clears off the bed and leaves, but Dean doesn’t. You realize that he stayed the night with you when you wake up the next morning and Dean Winchester is spooning you, holding your hand and has his lips pressed against your neck as he lightly snores.

* * *

Sam and Dean don't take you hunting for the next couple of weeks because they don’t want you to get hurt. Instead they leave you at the bunker to do research. But they call you at least once a day to check in and ask for information.

When they’re around, you feel great and you actually start to enjoy the time you are without them too because at least you know they're coming back.

You realize that even though you're not out there hunting, you're a valuable part of the team. You’re a Winchester. You’re family now. Dean was right. You would never feel alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE YOU SAMANTHA! 
> 
> JUST KEEP SWIMMING!!
> 
> ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING! <3 <3 <3


End file.
